’Tis the very crowning art
Of a happy, grateful heart
To others to impart
    Of its pleasure. 
Thus its joys can never cease,
For it brings an inward peace,
Like an every day increase
    Of a treasure.

=The Shoemaker=

“Honor and shame from no condition rise. 
 Act well your part:—­there all the honor lies.”

The shoemaker sat amid wax and leather,
  With lapstone over his knee;
Where, snug in his shop, he defied all weather,
A-drawing his quarters and sole together: 
  A happy old man was he!

This happy old man was so wise and knowing,
  The worth of his time he knew. 
He bristled his ends, and he kept them going;
And felt to each moment a stitch was owing,
  Until he got round the shoe.

Of every deed that his wax was sealing,
  The closing was firm and fast. 
The prick of his steel never caused a feeling
Of pain to the toe, and his skill in heeling
  Was perfect, and true to the last!

Whenever you gave him a foot to measure. 
  With gentle and skilful hand,
He took its proportions, with looks of pleasure,
As if you were giving the costliest treasure,
  Or dubbing him lord of the land.

And many a one did he save from getting
  A fever, or cold or cough: 
For many a sole did he save from wetting,
When, whether in water or snow ’twas setting,
  His shoeing would keep them off

And when he had done with his making and mending,
  With hope and a peaceful breast,
Resigning his awl, as his thread was ending,
He slid from his bench, to the grave descending,
  As high as a king to rest!

=The Snow-Storm=

It snows! it snows! from out the sky
The feathered flakes, how fast they fly,
Like little birds, that don’t know why
They’re on the chase, from place to place,
While neither can the other trace! 
It snows, it snows! a merry play
Is o’er us, on this sombre day.

As dancers in time’s airy hall,
That not a moment holds them all,
While some keep up, and others fall,
The atoms shift; then, thick and swift,
They drive along to form the drift,
That weaving up, so dazzling white,
Is rising like a wall of light.

But now the wind comes, whistling loud,
To snatch and waft it, as a cloud,
Or giant phantom in a shroud. 
It spreads,—­it curls,—­it mounts and whirls;
At length a mighty wing unfurls;
And then, away!—­but where, none knows,
Or ever will.—­It snows! it snows!

To-morrow will the storm be done;
Then out will come the golden sun! 
And we shall, we shall see, upon the run
Before his beams, in sparkling streams,
What now a curtain o’er him seems. 
And thus, with life it ever goes;—­
’Tis shade and shine!  It snows, it snows!

=The Whirlwind=

Whirlwind, Whirlwind, whither art thou hieing,
  Snapping off the flowers young and fair;—­
Setting all the chaff and the withered leaves a-flying,—­
  Tossing up the dust in the air?